


There Is

by missazrael



Series: Seasons [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gay Sex, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 23:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4240929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missazrael/pseuds/missazrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dear Lieutenant Courtenay,</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>You’re missed in the Abbey.  The nurses send their regards, and pine for your absence.  I tell them it had to happen, but they still cry at night for missing you.  Lady Sybil sends her regards.</i></p><p> </p><p>After meeting and falling for each other at the convalesce home, Edward and Thomas are separated to wait for the war's end.  Five days after the Armistice, they are reunited for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Is

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel to To Everything, beginning immediately where it left off.

It does him no good at all, but Edward sits in the car with his face turned back towards the Abbey, as if he could see it fade into the distance, as if he could watch it grow smaller and smaller until it disappears, as if he could pick out Thomas’ form, standing and watching him go, a faint, sardonic smile on his lips. It’s nonsense, simple wishful thinking; he has no idea what the Abbey looks like, despite spending a year of his life there. He knows the feel of its bricks under his fingertips, and the scent of age that permeates its halls and corridors, rising above the reek of the hospital beds; he knows the gardens and the grounds, where the most pungent flowers grow and where a vixen has made a nest for her kits; he knows the flavors and spices the cook favors, knows her routine and when to expect which dish. But he doesn’t know what it looks like, and he never will, no more than he knows Thomas’ face. If he had his eyes given back to him tomorrow, he’d be unable to pick Thomas out of a line up.

At least, he would be helpless to do so until they let him close his eyes and sniff, until he could use what he knows already to guide him. He knows Thomas’ scent, and the caress of his hands, rough and hardened by work, the left one permanently sheathed in a smooth leather glove. He knows Thomas’ voice, the cadence and pitch of it, the way he can sound like he’s smiling in the faintest, cheekiest way. And now he knows Thomas’ mouth, and his taste, and what it feels like to have his lips pressed against his collarbone, sucking a mark there, and how raspy his voice sounds when he tells Edward it’s something to remember him by, until they can be together again.

He raises one hand and touches the spot near his throat, covered by his shirt and uniform coat; it still feels damp, although he knows that’s his imagination and not fact. Edward can feel heat rising in his cheeks as he remembers what they’d done, the way their hands had been all over each other, out in the woods, and the way Thomas had pushed him up against a tree and tried to cover him with his mouth. He’d been surprised by Thomas’ eagerness, and how it had verged nearly on desperation; he’d been half-convinced Thomas would scoff at his last guess, or make a joke of it as he had all the others, and they would have parted ways as friends, nothing more, destined to drift out of each other’s lives. He hadn’t allowed himself to dream that he’d be met with such vigor, such enthusiasm, and the thought makes him smile a little to himself.

“Are you eager to be going home, sir?”

Edward is jolted out of his reminiscence by the voice of the driver. It’s someone new, a boy from the village who is too young for the war. Edward remembers him vaguely, one of the younger children of a sprawling family of tenant farmers, although he’d been a gangling youth the last time he’d seen him. Or perhaps that had been his brother, whose name Edward had recognized in the paper as one of the war dead.

“As eager as one can be, I suppose.” He’s not, but he’ll be cordial to the boy.

“We’re excited to have you back, my lord.”

“Are you?” Edward’s politeness is more genuine this time, and he turns around, facing forward. “Have things gone to ruin in my absence?”

“Not to ruin, sir, but it’s not like when you were there. The new lord, he don’t…” The boy catches himself, and Edward hears him clear his throat. “All the little people will be glad to see you, my lord.”

“Yes.” Edward settles back into his seat, his walking stick between his knees, the wood half as warm as Thomas’ hand, and mulls over what the boy has told him, and the meaning behind everything he hadn’t. “I imagine they will be.”

~*~

_Dear Lieutenant Courtenay,_

_You’re missed in the Abbey. The nurses send their regards, and pine for your absence. I tell them it had to happen, but they still cry at night for missing you. Lady Sybil sends her regards._

~*~

_Dearest Thomas,_

_I’ve arrived home, and I do hope I don’t make a mess of this letter. I apologize if I write over myself, or if I write clear off the_

_Clear off the desk, as I just did. It’s most challenging to write this way, but it’s worth it. I can’t stop thinking about our time together, and our walk in the woods. My reunion with my family was every bit as dreadful as I thought it would be, and I couldn’t help but think how much stronger I could have been with you at my arm. God willing that the War be over soon, that we may be reunited…_

~*~

His family had gathered the entire staff to greet the car, and Edward cringes when the car stops and he can hear them murmuring. He can feel the weight of their eyes, of their pity, all these people he’s known his entire life and yet hasn’t seen in four years (and will never see again, and if that’s not a bitter pill to swallow, he doesn’t know what is), and he hates knowing that they see him as a cripple now, as someone to be pitied and coddled.

 _You have to fight for what’s yours_. Thomas’ words ring through his head, and Edward sets his jaw, grips his walking stick tightly, and climbs out of the car on his own when the boy opens the door, brushing off his offered arm. He’s not entirely helpless, and by listening to the sounds of feet shifting on gravel, and remembering what he knows of the estate’s layout, he manages to walk on his own to the middle of the line, where he knows his family will be, with his head held high. He doesn’t stop until his walking stick brushes against the toe of someone’s shoe.

“I’m home.”

“Oh Edward, your poor dear face…” And then he feels his mother’s hands on his cheeks, soft and plump, the cool metal of her rings pressing into his skin as she turns his face from side to side, getting an eyeful of his scars and his blank, staring eyes, and Edward resists the urge to roll them.

“Son.” He feels his father clasp his elbow, firm and almost rough, and it makes him jump. He’ll have to explain all over again, to an entirely new household, how to touch him and approach him, and the thought makes bile rise in his throat. Edward allows himself one moment to wish desperately for Thomas, for someone to help him weather this and explain all his needs to the staff so that he doesn’t have to, and Edward sighs, wresting his face out of his mother’s hands before offering a hand to his sire, the Lord Courtenay.

“Father.”

And then he hears it: an ugly, low snickering, followed by a wafting stench of cologne, and Edward braces himself for the blow that he knows is coming. He’s not left disappointed; Jack hits him, hard, between the shoulder blades, and if Edward hadn’t prepared himself, the action would have sent him facedown in the gravel. As it is, he stumbles forward, bumping into their father, and Edward grits his teeth. Only Jack would be so obtuse, so malicious, as to immediately draw attention to his disability, to make him look weak, to look the fool, in front of everyone. He had hoped four years and age would would temper Jack’s idiocy a little, but no, now he’s a seventeen year old idiot without the excuse of childhood to hide behind any longer.

Edward straightens up, tugging his uniform back down where he can feel it bunching at his waist and brushing away his father’s supportive hand. “It’s my eyes that are damaged, not my legs!”

He can hear his mother, clucking and simpering in the background, making excuses for Jack the way she always does, and he can feel all the old hurt and anger bubbling up again, threatening to spill out and turn him into a snarling beast.

But no, that’s not who he is anymore. He’s seen really suffering, real horror, and Jack’s taunts and gambits look paltry and small by comparison. Edward swallows, pushes down the urge to rap Jack’s shins with his walking stick, and turns to face his brother.

“Hello, Jack.” His voice is calm and collected, if cool and distant, and Edward is proud of himself for his restraint. “I see that the passage of time hasn't changed you at all. More’s the pity.”

The silence is so deafening Edward thinks for a moment that his ears have ceased work along with his eyes. 

~*~

_… the trees have exploded with color. They are all red, gold, and yellow, like fire. Some of the leaves are falling, and they crunch when I walk in the woods…_

~*~

_… and he’s just as incorrigible as he was before, just a complete and utter shit. Forgive my language but he’s going to drive this estate to ruin with his harebrained plots and schemes. He’s been abusing the tenant farmers and just generally being awful…_

~*~

Edward’s room is the same as he left it, and he supposes he can thank his parents for at least assuring that it wasn’t ransacked during the last four years. He finds, though, that his needs have changed, along with everything else, and he spends his first day home slowly, laboriously reorganizing everything. Everything must be done by touch now, and he’s frankly appalled at how sloppy he was when he was younger. He shoos his father’s valet away more than once, finally snapping at the man the third time he comes lurking round and then immediately feeling bad about it. 

The most difficult part of the room is his desk; he organizes his writing materials carefully, putting things where he can find them easily, and then runs his fingertips along the spines of his books, quietly mourning how he’ll never read them again. He cheers himself with the thought that Thomas will read to him once he’s on the estate, and they can share the stories with each other, then settles at the desk to write a letter, using his left hand to mark his spot on the left side of the page, and extending his smallest finger to alert him to the end of the page. He’s certain his penmanship has gone straight to hell, and that he’s scattering ink blots all over the page, and he can only hope that his writing doesn’t slant down and he isn’t writing over his own words. He already misses Thomas deeply, and writes several pages before his hand is cramping and he realizes he’s just repeating himself.

The valet comes back an hour or so later, meekly asking if he’d like help dressing for dinner. Edward accepts with as much good humor as he can muster, and realizes that he’d put on his uniform when he awoke. He gets changed into his old clothes, clothes that smell of must and disuse, clothes that hang off his frame, but they are _his_ , and that alone is a comfort. He shoves his uniform far into the back of the wardrobe, and taps his way down to dinner on the valet’s arm in a better humor than he’s felt in awhile.

He slips his letter to the valet, asking him to post it first thing in the morning.

~*~

_… the nurses keep complaining. They miss you badly and wish you were still here. They say they would do anything to see you smile again…_

~*~

_… Father avoids me, Mother has taken to bed again with one of her spells, and Jack is being his usual self and gadding about London as though there isn’t a war going on. I’d forgotten how lonely this estate can be, or perhaps I’ve just gotten used to your constant presence in my life. It’s a bitter, cold existence without you, my darling, and I count the days until the war ends and I can send for you. I’ve already told Father that you’ll be joining us as my valet, and that you have particular skills for a man in my condition. He balked at first, until I asked if he wanted to advertise for a valet who can work with the blind in the papers, and then he gave way. One must save face at all times, you know…_

~*~

The new chauffeur’s name is Timothy, and he is only too happy to drive Edward around the estate; the child has grown bored with only a family of three to tend to, and the opportunity to go on long, rambling jaunts around the estate is one he relishes. Edward knew how to drive, before the war, but had preferred horseback or motorcycles, and he’s content to sit in the back of the car and be ferried about. He realizes, during one such journey, that he doesn’t even know if his horse is still alive, or on the farm; it’s been years since he thought of Lightning, and he wonders if the animal would still remember him. Mostly, though, he thinks about how the rides would be much more pleasant with Thomas beside him, their knees touching, the sides of their thighs pressed together, Thomas’ hand warm and strong in his own and… and Edward swallows, mentally readjusting, lest he get too excited.

The tenant farmers are surprised that he’s home, speaking to him in the hushed, solemn tones reserved for the simple and the dying, and Edward is having none of that. He speaks to them brusquely but not unkindly—he’s neither his father nor Jack—asking about all that’s happened in his absence, and they slowly begin to unthaw. He hears of poor decisions made, decisions the farmers knew were wrong or would end in failure but were powerless to stop, and Edward grimaces, immediately reversing them and setting things back on the proper path.

Word travels fast in farm country, and soon the farmers know he’s coming, and Edward is greeted with respect and barely withheld relief. Families he’s known since he was a boy shyly invite him inside their homes for the first time, and as he sips tea from chipped cups and talks with them across splintering kitchen tables, Edward realizes that they’re more comfortable with him now because he can’t see their poverty.

He learns new things, or remembers things he’s forgotten: a farmer who has had an apple orchard in his family for several generations offers him a strip of bacon from his own pigs, and it melts in Edward’s mouth, tender and juicy and cured with apple smoke; a small boy from illiterate parents proudly reads him a story from his school primer, carefully sounding out each word and rolling them in his mouth; a woman widowed by the war takes him to her garden and describes her irrigation system, guiding his hands over the pipes and tubes when he expresses interest, demurring at first when he asks if it’s possible on a large scale but then slowly growing animated when he presses her. He wonders, later, as Timothy drives him home, how many brilliant, insightful ideas have been lost to history because no one ever listened, and it saddens him.

“Timothy?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“What do you want to do with your life?”

“Lieutenant Courtenay, sir?” He’s confused the boy; Timothy only uses Edward’s military title when he’s upset or thrown off balance.

“Do you want to be a chauffeur your entire life, or do you aspire towards anything greater?”

“Your father was very kind to give me this job, sir.” The boy sounds distressed now, and Edward feels a slight list as the car begins to drift.

“Pay attention to the road!”

The car corrects its course almost immediately, with Timothy apologizing profusely, his stammering words interlaced with _my lords_. Edward realizes too late that he’d barked at the lad, spoken with his father’s voice, and the thought depresses him. He’s not like that, he’s a better man than his father, and he doesn’t bring up the topic again. Timothy stays quiet the rest of the way home, letting him brood, and it’s only when they’re back and Timothy is helping him down from the backseat that he speaks again, his words coming out all in a rush.

“I’ve not given you any reason to be displeased with me, have I, my lord? If I have, sir, please tell me, I’ll fix it, I’ll do better, I need this job, sir, my lord, my father died in the war and I’ve got me mum to look after…”

For one terrible moment, Edward hears the same words in Thomas’ voice, plaintive, desperate, and he thinks his heart might break. He reaches out and rests his hand on Timothy’s shoulder, absurdly pleased when he finds it right away and doesn’t accidentally grope the lad elsewhere, and the boy’s mouth closes with a snap.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, and I’ve no complaint with your work.” Edward can feel the boy relax under the weight of his hand, and Edward pats him once or twice, awkward, as though he’s petting a fretful horse. “I was simply wondering if you’d ever dreamed of anything more.”

“No, my lord. I haven’t.”

And that, Edward thinks, is the saddest response of all. “You’ll tell me if you think of anything?”

“Yes, my lord.”

~*~

_Dear nurses,_

_I’m unable to stop thinking about you. You occupy my every thought, my every breath, and all that I do, I do in preparation for us to be together once more. I long to run my hand through your silken hair, to surround myself with your scent, to feel your lips pressed flush against mine own. I dream of you at night, and when I wake without you beside me, it’s cruelty upon cruelty compounded that I wake alone…_

~*~

_… you rile up the nurses terribly with your last letter. They hardly get anything done because they’re so busy swooning, and they fight over which gets the privilege to keep your letter under her pillow at night…_

~*~

TELEGRAM  
YORKSHIRE  
DOWNTON  
DOWNTON ABBEY CONVALESCENCE HOME  
LANCE SERGEANT THOMAS BARROW

WAR TO END 11 NOV  
POSITION STILL AVAILABLE  
WHEN CAN YOU COME 

~*~

TELEGRAM  
DEVONSHIRE  
DEVON  
COURTENAY ESTATE  
LORD EDWARD COURTENAY

HOSPITAL CLOSES 15 NOV  
CAN BE ON TRAIN 16 NOV  
STILL VERY INTERESTED

~*~

TICKET PURCHASED 16 NOV  
1300 HOURS LONDON  
MEET AT KINGS CROSS  
APOLOGIZE TO NURSES

~*~

NO APOLOGY NEEDED

~*~

Edward insists on his father’s valet driving him to London, much to Timothy’s unspoken hurt feelings. His father doesn’t see the point in requiring one valet to be present to pick up another and fights the request, until Edward tells him that his man will benefit from seeing a valet fully used to working with the blind in action. Truly, it’s because he knows the valet has family in London, and will leap at the chance to go visit them; Timothy would hound he and Thomas like an overeager, tail-wagging puppy, and that is the very last thing Edward needs. He’ll make it up to Timothy later, he vows, and makes note to bring the boy something special from the city.

He arrives at King’s Cross ten minutes before the train is due, and stands jittering at the correct gate, his father’s valet lingering at his elbows, clearly unsure if he should be offering a guiding hand or not.

Edward hears the train as it pulls in, and closes his eyes against the rush of heat that billows off it, a dragon’s breath washing over him. He wishes bitterly that he could see, that he could watch Thomas get off the train and come towards him, surrounded and silhouetted by steam, that he could see the smile on Thomas’ face as well as hear it in his voice. He takes a step forward, ignoring the way the valet’s fingers brush against his elbow, and silently prays to the god he stopped believing in when the gas crept under his mask and to his eyes that Thomas didn’t change his mind, that he came.

And then he smells tobacco smoke and feels the platform tremble minutely under his feet, and Edward can’t help it, he breaks into a wide smile, the kind that hasn’t graced his face since before the war.

“First class ticket, Lord Courtenay,” and god, he can hear it, he can hear Thomas’ smile, and they must look a pair of idiots, standing and grinning at each other and Edward couldn’t care less, “you do spoil me.”

Edward opens his mouth to reply, to make a similarly snappy retort, but then Thomas grasps his elbow and he’s a lost man. Somehow, Thomas turns it into a caress, a private, illicit thing in the middle of King’s Cross station, and Edward discovers that all the poets were right as Thomas slowly crawls his hand up his inner arm. You really _can_ go weak in the knees.

“I thought it best to treat you well,” he manages, and Thomas slides up beside him, positioning himself at his side the way they’d done before, and Edward touches his forearm, trying to impart all of his gladness, all of his joy and delight, into a single touch. He fails, he’s sure, but feels that Thomas probably understands all the same.

“Come along, Barrow, you must be tired after your journey.” Edward turns, and nearly collides with his father’s valet, who steps back quickly and clears his throat.

Oh, yes. “Robinson, you have family in the city, correct?”

“Yes, my lord.” Cautious, as though he expects a trick, and Edward feels Thomas squeeze his arm in question.

“Go and visit them for the next two days.” Thomas’ hand tightens on his elbow, and Edward imagines his eyes—eyes that he can’t picture well, not knowing their color—lighting up like stars.

“My lord?”

“Go and spend time with them.” Edward tries a smile, and finds it sits naturally on his face, more naturally than it had during all his time at home. “You’ll be paid the same, I assure you, and I’ve another pair of eyes to be my guide now.” When the man still hesitates, Edward taps at his ankles with his walking stick. “Go on. It’s not every day that the war to end all wars comes to an end, and you’ve earned the right to a little rest and relaxation.”

“If you’re sure, my lord…”

“I am. Now go.”

Edward isn’t sure Robinson has listened, until he feels Thomas lean close—and it’s intoxicating, having him so close, it makes Edward feel like his lungs are too full of air and he’ll float away—and says, _sotto voce_ , “You’ve just made a man very happy… Edward.”

He turns his head, quietly delighted at the sound of his Christian name, and breathes in Thomas’ scent. “I hope I can do the same for another very soon.”

Thomas laughs at that, the sound bright and surprised, and Edward wants nothing more than to hear that laugh everyday, for the rest of his days. “I don’t doubt that you will.”

~*~

The ride back to the hotel is exquisite agony; Thomas hails them a carriage and helps Edward into it, playing running his hand over his hip as Edward climbs into it, and then they sit together in the back. Thomas keeps their arms linked, and his hand crawls up and down the inside of Edward’s upper arm, awakening nerves long sleeping and others Edward thought long dead. Thomas presses their knees together, their thighs touching the way Edward has envisioned in the back of his father’s car, and Edward’s spine crawls with electricity and nervous anticipation. He’s no virgin—he’d visited the brothels in France with the other officers, and had even developed a brief infatuation with a sloe-eyed, slender prostitute who spoke not a word of English and spent their time together staring at the ceiling in utter boredom and quiet resignation—but he’s never been with another man, nor anyone he’s cared about, and knowing what’s coming next makes the air feel like it’s supercharged, like the moors just before a thunderstorm breaks, the kind of weather that makes horses skittish and dogs howl, the kind that fills the world with the stink of metal and celestial violence. Once, when they’re stopped at an intersection, Thomas says something under his breath and Edward leans in to hear him better, and Thomas brushes his lips across his ear. The rascal hadn’t had anything to say at all, and Edward has to stifle a ridiculous, boyish giggle.

The bellhop leads them to their room in the hotel, and Thomas keeps himself the picture of respectability and professionalism… until the door latches quietly behind the retreating bellhop, and Thomas is gone from Edward’s side like a puff of smoke. Edward reaches after him, confused and a little rejected, but then he hears the lock snap into the door frame and he understands. A bare fraction of a second later, Thomas is in his arms, pressed close against him, his hands knotting on the lapels of Edward’s coat. Edward hardly has time to suck in a breath before Thomas seals their lips together, his mouth hot and needy, opening and tasting of smoke and tea and that musky undertone that is uniquely Thomas, and Edward moans softly. He wraps his arms around Thomas’ waist, as though he could press Thomas any closer than he’s already pushed himself, and Thomas is warm and moving and _alive_ against him, and Edward’s heart feels like it’s going to pound out of his chest.

Thomas breaks their kiss with a soft gasp—too many cigarettes, he has weaker lungs than Edward—and pushes gently on his chest. Edward takes a step back, cooperative, and keeps going until he feels the back of his calves bump against something.

“The bed is behind you.” Thomas’ mouth moves over his ear, catching his earlobe and giving it a tug before releasing it. “I’m going to push you backwards onto it. You only have two feet to fall.” And then he waits for confirmation, for Edward to acknowledge that the fall won’t frighten him, and Edward feels great, simple affection for the man swell in his chest.

He doesn’t wait for Thomas to push him again, instead choosing to tighten his hold on him and fall backwards, taking Thomas with him. They land in a tangle on the bed, Thomas’ weight pressing Edward down and his laughter in his ear, and Edward had never known that falling could be so exhilarating.

He tugs on Thomas, trying to bring him back towards his face, and Thomas needs no such encouragement, moving and shifting above Edward until he feels Thomas’ mouth press against his again, and Edward doesn’t think about how this is illegal, or how it could get them both imprisoned, or how everything he’s ever been taught says that this is wrong. He only thinks about the taste of Thomas’ tongue and the feel of his weight pressing him down into the mattress, and about how this is the most alive he’s felt since he awoke in a field hospital with his eyes useless and burning under thick bandages.

Thomas fumbles with the buttons on Edward’s shirt, trying to get them open without removing his mouth and failing, eventually giving in with a soft curse and sitting back, and Edward laughs quietly. “I say, Mr. Barrow, you are failing your first test as a valet if you can’t even get me out of my shirt properly.”

Thomas snorts from somewhere above him, and Edward reaches up, finding his sides and running his fingers up and down them, feeling Thomas shiver underneath his touch. “It’s not a position as your valet that interests me, Mr. Courtenay.”

“Oh?” Edward moves his hands again, just to feel Thomas react to his touch. “And what position were you hoping for?”

“That of your lover.” Thomas answers immediately, without thought, and Edward is struck speechless. The honesty of it, and the integrity, knowing full well that such a proclamation could get him beaten or even imprisoned, is the likes of which he’s never encountered before, and it occurs to him that Thomas Barrow is one of the bravest men he’s ever met.

Thomas starts speaking again, his tone softer, and his hands still on Edward’s shirt, the buttons undone down to his stomach. “I mean, I wouldn’t wish to presume, my lord, and place intentions where they’re unwanted, but I thought perhaps we had something between us, and I certainly wouldn’t ask that you make such knowledge public, but…”

In an eerie, echoing kind of deja vu, Edward hears Timothy’s voice pouring from Thomas’ mouth, and he reaches up, patting along Thomas’ arm to find his face and putting a finger on his lips. Thomas stills, waiting, and Edward feels the full weight of a lifetime of loneliness and thwarted desires laying heavy in the room.

“Thomas, my dear, sweet Thomas, my darling…” Edward feels Thomas’ lips tremble under his fingertip, and he shifts his hand to cup the side of his face, stroking his thumb over his cheekbone. “I would be honored to be your lover, and your partner, if you’d have me.”

He feels Thomas suck in a breath, and then Edward is crushed under his weight as Thomas lunges back down, smothering him in kisses and touching him everywhere his hands can reach, and it’s all Edward can do to hang on and simply enjoy the ride. He feels one of his buttons give way and hears it clatter on the floor across the room as Thomas pulls his shirt open, and he starts to say something about it, but then Thomas’ lips are tracing the line of hair down the center of his abdomen, and all conscious thought flutters from Edward’s mind. He reaches down, burying his hands in Thomas’ thick, silky hair, and thinks of nothing else but what Thomas is doing to him with his skilled hands and even more talented tongue.

~*~

Later, Thomas seems awkward, almost shy, and Edward practically has to coax him up to the head of the bed with him, sharing sweet, salt-tinged kisses and tucking the other man in against his shoulder. Thomas is hesitant at first, but once he’s been gently bullied into position, he melts against Edward’s side, curling up beside him like a kitten, and practically purring. Edward tucks his head in against his shoulder, where he can continue touching his hair, and feels Thomas’ breath on his neck as he breathes.

“Thomas?”

“Yes?”

“May I touch your face?”

A low hum, and Edward feels a kiss against his throat. “You’ve touched it before. Why ask permission now?”

“I want to know what you look like.”

A pause, and then Thomas lifts Edward’s hand and brings it to his face. “I’m handsome enough, but nothing to write home about.”

Edward is inclined to disagree—how could anyone hear Thomas’ laugh, or the kindness lying buried in his voice, and not find him breathtaking?—but he stays quiet as he skims his fingertips over Thomas’ features. A high forehead and cheekbones; deep set eyes; a straight, narrow nose; a mouth a little too wide but with full, lush lips, still swollen from previous activities; a strong, firm jawline and pointed chin. Handsome enough, indeed; by touch alone, Thomas is tremendously appealing, and Edward brushes his hair off his forehead.

“What color is your hair?”

“Black.”

“And your eyes?”

“Pale blue. Nothing special.”

“I quite disagree, Mr. Barrow.” Edward slides his hand behind Thomas’ neck and draws him down for another kiss, Thomas falling easily at the slightest pressure from his hand. “You’re very special.”

He politely ignores the way Thomas’ breath hitches at that, and tries to kiss him silly instead.

~*~

Edward has every intention of getting up early the next morning and going out into the city, but after weeks of sleeping in his silent, sepulchral room, isolated on the estate and with no one to talk to who actually listens to him, he falls into a deep, dreamless sleep, the kind of sleep he remembers from before the war but hasn’t experienced since, but for a single time. On the night when the boiler failed, when he’d drifted off with Thomas lying beside him, listening to the sound of his breathing, he’d slept like a child, peaceful and untroubled, and woken wrapped in Thomas’ arms. He sleeps the same way on this night, and awakens to the sensation of Thomas’ lips moving across his throat, of Thomas’ hand trailing down his chest.

He hums quietly as Thomas mouths at his pulse, and Edward strokes a hand down his back, feeling Thomas arch into his touch like a contented, treasured cat. “Good morning, darling.”

“Hello, sweet.” Thomas’ voice is muffled as he dips the tip of his tongue into the space where Edward’s collarbones meet, and he shivers.

“What time is it?” Were they back at the estate, Edward would have some idea, based on the temperature of the room, but here, it could be any time at all.

“Half to seven.” Thomas moves lower, ghosting his breath over one of Edward’s nipples, and delicious tension courses through his spine as he feels it tighten into a hard little peak. “You’re turning me into a shiftless layabout, Lord Courtenay. I’d have been up for an hour and a half already back at the Abbey.”

Edward starts to protest, but then Thomas seals his lips around his nipple, giving it a teasing little tug, and his argument turns into a quiet little moan. “Perhaps… perhaps I think you’ve earned a bit… a bit of shiftlessness,” he tells him, his voice breathless and high-pitched, as the rest of his body starts to stir to life, and Thomas laughs, his breath billowing over Edward’s skin.

“I rather think I’d enjoy being industrious, if the task were a pleasant one.” Thomas moves his attention to Edward’s center, to his solar plexus where his hair grows sparse and fine, and Edward squirms as Thomas’ bristly whiskers tickle him, scratching across his exposed skin.

“You’re a dreadful tease.”

“As though you’re not.” Thomas sighs dramatically, his tongue swirling around Edward’s navel. “Those poor nurses…”

Edward snorts ungentlemanly laughter. “Those nurses couldn’t stand me, you realize.” As Thomas has moved, Edward’s hand has dragged across his body, from his back to his shoulder, the entire expanse of Thomas’ bare back laid out beneath Edward’s palm, and he lifts it the rest of the way, stroking it through Thomas’ hair, feeling the silken strands between his fingers.

“Their loss is my gain.” And then Thomas shifts a final time, settling between Edward’s legs and closing his mouth around his length. All higher thought scatters from Edward’s mind, floating away as though on ocean currents, and he lays back to enjoy the sensations.

~*~

They end up ordering breakfast in the room.

~*~

And lunch as well. Thomas dresses to accept it, and tells the curious hallboy, with a completely deadpan, imperious tone, that his lordship isn’t feeling well and needs to stay abed. When the door is safely locked behind him, he shuffles out of his clothes and joins Edward back in the bed, and they feed each other absurdly expensive fresh fruit, sucking the juices off each other’s fingers.

~*~

Edward insists, over Thomas’ good-natured, lazy protests, on getting dressed and going downstairs for dinner. “We can’t be lie-abouts all day.”

“ _I_ certainly could, if I was allowed to be a lie-about with you.”

Edward smiles faintly at that, and Thomas cuffs him gently on the chin. “No smiling, you make this more difficult when you smile.”

“My apologies.” Edward stills his face and closes his eyes, and Thomas’ hand is warm on his chin as Thomas scrapes the straight razor down his cheeks. Edward is able to shave himself now, using one of those newfangled safety razors, but he does a poor, patchy job of it, always feeling itchy and unkempt when he’s finished. He’d leapt at the chance when Thomas had offered, and Thomas’ hands are deft and skilled as he turns Edward’s face from side to side, carefully scraping off the lather and leaving Edward’s skin sensitive and tingling in the razor’s wake.

Thomas is as meticulous as he is quick, and he soon glides his fingers down Edward’s cheek and makes a soft sound of approval. “Truly a face fit for a lord,” he proclaims, and then kisses Edward’s protests away.

“Aren’t you going to shave as well?” Edward had felt short whiskers at the corners of Thomas’ mouth when they’d kissed, and his thighs still burn from the scratches Thomas had left between them.

“I’m not.” Thomas sounds absolutely delighted at the prospect. “I’m going to go downstairs bristly and ill-groomed, and they’re all going to think me a lout who’s taken advantage of his lord’s blindness, and only we’ll know about the kind of noises you make when my whiskers scratch against your thighs.”

He probably shouldn’t encourage such behavior, but Edward bursts out laughing all the same. Thomas just sounds so happy at the chance to be a rapscallion, positively giddy, and it’s impossible to deny him.

“You _will_ shave before we return to the estate, I hope?” Edward stands up, letting his dressing gown fall from his shoulders, and Thomas moves in quickly, helping him into his shirt and then buttoning it closed. He is, at the very least, an adept valet.

“Of course.” Edward feels the weight of his suit jacket fall on his shoulders, and works his arms through the sleeves. As he knots the tie at Edward’s throat, Thomas’ voice grows serious. “I actually give a damn what they think of me.”

“Why? My family is dreadful.”

“Because they’re yours.” Thomas finishes with Edward’s tie, and then holds him by the upper arms. Edward feels him take a step back, presumably to get a better look at him, and Thomas must be pleased with what he sees, for he quickly steps back in and lays his hands on Edward’s chest. Without thinking on it, Edward lifts his arms and wraps them around Thomas’ waist, and it’s almost as though they’re dancing. Thomas clears his throat before leaning even closer, and Edward realizes that he’s shifted from a valet taking pride in his work to a shy lover without him even realizing it. He never thought he’d hear Thomas sounding shy and uncertain, but he’s learning more about the man with every passing hour. “And now I’m yours as well?”

Thomas mightn’t have wanted that to sound a question, but Edward hears it that way all the same. He lifts one hand from Thomas’ waist and brings it up between them, curling it around Thomas’ hand and lifting it to his mouth. He kisses the back of Thomas’ knuckles, his lips brushing across the smooth leather of Thomas’ glove, which he never takes off, even when every other stitch has fallen to the floor beside the bed. “You are,” he confirms, and Thomas opens his hand to cup Edward’s freshly shorn cheek. “And I hope you’ll stay such for a long, long time.”

~*~

The dinner is roast beef, and the maitre de apologizes profusely for the poor quality of the cut, dancing delicately around the fact of Edward’s blindness and difficulty he presumes he’ll have cutting it. It takes a great deal of reassurance and tiresome politics before the man relents, and Thomas shifts impatiently at Edward’s side the entire time. He pointedly clears his throat more than once, but the maitre de directs all his attention at Edward, even going so far as to take his arm once he’s finally been convinced that yes, Edward can handle a cut of meat on his own. Edward politely but firmly pulls it out of his grasp, and lets Thomas lead them both to their table.

“He must have seen me beside you,” Thomas complains after they’re seated, side by side instead of across from each other, at Edward’s insistence. “How could he have not known I’d assist you, if you needed it at all?”

“He didn’t want to offend me.” Edward has grown increasingly familiar and weary both with what he thinks of as the Disability Dance, and begins patting the table to find his place settings. “If he drew attention to you, it would be as though he were pointing out that I can’t do it myself.”

Thomas huffs in agitation, clearly hearing what Edward had been trying to gently imply: it’s better to treat a servant as though they don’t exist than to risk offending a lord. Edward slips his hand under the table, feeling the tablecloth drape over his wrist, and finds Thomas’ knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “They shan’t act like that on the estate, I promise you.”

Thomas sighs, and Edward can feel the tension drain out of the muscles of his leg. Thomas’ hand finds his, just as it had so long ago in the hospital, but this time, Thomas twines their fingers together, pressing his palm to Edward’s, and Edward wishes dearly that he could lean in and give Thomas a kiss. He wishes too that he’d had the courage to follow through the first time, the first time they’d held each other’s hands back at Downton, but it wouldn’t have been right. It would have been too soon, and he’d have frightened himself away. What’s past is past, though, and he instead imagines the reaction the rest of the room would have if he truly did lean over and kiss Thomas. What a scandal that would be, the son of a lord kissing a commoner in public! It would cause such a stir that the gentry might even be persuaded to forget that Thomas is a man!

“You’re smiling, dar—my lord.”

“Am I?” Edward hears the little slip, the way Thomas almost calls him darling, and his smile grows a little more sad, the tiniest bit of melancholy slipping into the evening. Would he be here at all, had he not been blinded? Would he and Thomas have ever met? He thinks they wouldn’t’ve, and Edward would have gone home after the war and married a girl from another aristocratic family, would have started a family and dutifully taken over the estate for his father. What would happen to Thomas then? Would he ever find someone to love him?

Edward leans in close, close enough that he can feel Thomas’ breath on his cheek, and murmurs, “It’s because I’m thinking of you.” He pauses, just a moment, before adding boldly, daringly, “my love.”

It’s too soon, they’ve only been reunited for a day, they’ve only been together for a few short months and all of that separated, and Edward has a moment of tremendous, almost paralyzing, fear. But then he hears Thomas suck in a breath and his grip on Edward’s hand tightens, clinging to him almost desperately, and Edward thinks that they’ll be okay.

~*~

The meat isn’t nearly as tough as the maitre de had proclaimed, and Edward is pleased to discover that he’s quite capable of wrangling it on his own, as long as he keeps his knife touching it when he raises a piece to his mouth. He fills Thomas in on his activities around the estate, and all the work he’s been doing to get it running properly again. Thomas listens attentively, and though Edward knows he knows little and less of farming, asks questions and offers suggestions that tell Edward he’s been paying attention and perhaps even studying on his own. The image of Thomas hunched over a farming text, studying and learning so that he’s not left behind, is an endearing one. Thomas tells Edward about the last months of the convalescent home, but he brushes through the information, indifferent and disinterested despite working there for many years.

“Won’t you miss anyone there?” Edward asks as a waiter clears away their plates.

Thomas hesitates, and under the table, he spreads his knees and bumps one against Edward’s. Without thinking, Edward reaches down and pats it.

“Lady Sybil, perhaps,” he allows, and Edward notices the shift in title, from nurse to lady. “But the war is over now, and I doubt she’ll remember me past this month.”

“Surely not!” In spite of himself, Edward is vaguely shocked by Thomas’ proclamation. “Lady Sybil worked so well with you!”

“She did,” Thomas admits, his voice dropping into bitter, hurt registers. “But it doesn’t matter, because she’s a lady and I’m the son of a clock maker, and with the war over she shan’t pay me the time of day again.”

Edward opens his mouth to respond, to refute, but finds there’s nothing he can say. He knows Thomas is telling the truth, and it shames him to think that he’d once have done the same. He gives Thomas’ knee another helpless squeeze, and feels Thomas link their fingers together again, his grip rougher than usual, almost frantic.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas murmurs, and Edward hears his breathing change, grow raspy, and he gets the absurd notion that Thomas is holding back tears. “Lady Sybil was good to me, and I shouldn’t talk about her that way, I…”

Thomas is cut short by a heavy, aggressive hand landing on Edward’s shoulder, making him jump and his knees hit the underside of the table, setting all the glassware to chattering. If he weren’t holding Thomas’ hand, Edward would lash out behind him, flailing at his unseen enemy; as it is, he squeezes Thomas’ hand hard enough to make the knuckles pop. Even as a very familiar, nasal braying fills the air, Edward has to swallow his heart down and out of his throat.

“Edward, old boy!” Jack’s voice is loud, grating, setting Edward’s teeth on end. “Fancy seeing you here!”

Under the table, Thomas releases Edward’s hand, and Edward can feel the muscles in Thomas’ thigh tense. “Thomas,” he says, and he’s pleased at how steady his voice sounds, hardly trembling at all, “this is my younger brother, Jack Courtenay. Jack, this is my new valet and man-at-arms, Thomas Barrow.”

Jack is silent a moment, and Edward can imagine him bristling, puffing himself up like an outraged cat, watching them with narrowed eyes and trying to determine his next move. Thomas, wisely, stays quiet as well, his instincts towards self-preservation around the rich and spoiled serving him well.

“I wasn’t aware you were spending the weekend in the city.” Jack chooses to completely ignore Thomas, and Edward feels him shift beside him. “Had I but known, I could have arranged for us to spend some time together.” His grip on Edward’s shoulder tightens, beginning to border on painful, and Edward knows his brother wants anything but. “There’s a marvelous art exhibit at the National Gallery, and then we could climb St. Paul’s to get a view of the city, and finish with a walk past Parliment. It’s so lovely at sunset, don’t you agree?”

“Quite.” Jack knows what he’s doing, _he knows exactly what he’s doing_ , and Edward feels his chest clench as he’s reminded anew of everything he’ll never see again. He wishes desperately that he could have seen London one last time, or the hills around the estate again, or Thomas’ face even once, and he feels the old despair creeping back, threatening to engulf him.

Jack, sensing a win within his grasp, prattles on, cataloguing more things Edward will never see or do again, and he’s talking about the ballet, when he suddenly cuts himself off with a surprised roar. The sound jolts Edward out of his internal revelry, and he hears Jack sputtering furiously and Thomas murmuring demure, if insincere, apologies. Before he has time to piece things together, the maitre de arrives and adds to the fracas, and Edward knows he must look a fool, a helpless, worthless fool, turning his head from side to side, trying to figure out what’s going on around him. Thomas’ hand on his arm, clasping above his elbow, is solid and real enough, and Edward rises shakily to his feet.

“My apologies, sir,” Thomas is saying, and Edward wonders if anyone else can hear the smirk in his voice. “Excuse us,” and he whisks Edward out of the dining room, leaving Jack and the simpering maitre de alone.

“What hap—“ Edward starts to ask, but Thomas squeezes his arm and leans in, whispering in his ear. “Not now, love, I’ll tell you in the room,” and Edward can’t help but shiver a little at the proximity of Thomas’ lips to his ear, his nerves remembering things his mind forgets. They ride the lift in silence, beside an unimpressed bellhop, and Thomas strokes his fingers along the insider of Edward’s arm, a clandestine touch, and Edward can feel him shaking with scarcely controlled laughter.

“Thomas.” Edward does his best to sound stern, but it’s difficult when Thomas is snorting laughter as he latches the door behind them. “What happened?”

“I couldn’t help myself, darling.” Edward hears the door slide back into place, and then Thomas is in his arms, warm and broad, his arms wrapping around Edward’s neck and his hand moving along the back of his head, where his hair is cut short. “Your brother is a foul person, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” Edward certainly can’t argue that point. He links his arms loosely around Thomas’ waist, but doesn’t return his embrace. “What did you do to him?”

“Spilled a glass a wine on his jacket.” Thomas senses something is wrong, and his voice pitches lower, shifting into the tone he uses when he’s playing at being the servant, the tone Edward hates. He grips Edward tighter, pressing closer against him, and Edward can feel Thomas’ heart start to pound through his jacket. All the laughter is gone from his voice. “He was being so _cruel_ to you, Lord Courtenay, and I knew it was upsetting you. I saw you getting more and more distraught, and I…” Thomas’ voice cracks a little, and he shivers against Edward’s chest. “I can’t bear the thought of you growing sad again, and I didn’t know any other way to make him stop, coz he wouldn’t listen to me, you know he wouldn’t, and…”

Edward lifts his hand and puts a finger across Thomas’ lips, silencing him. “I’ve told you not to call me Lord Courtenay,” he murmurs, and feels Thomas nod, his lips moving over his finger. “You’ve made yourself an enemy today.”

Thomas sighs, his lips trembling. He shifts his weight, reaching down with one hand to wrap it loosely around Edward’s wrist. He runs his thumb along the underside of it, over the soft leather cuff Edward wears to hide his scars, the cuffs he no more removes than Thomas himself peeling off the glove on his left hand. “I know,” Thomas whispers, and the servant voice is gone, replaced by something soft and vulnerable, the shyness resurfacing. Edward wonders if anyone else has ever seen this side of Thomas, the part with all the bravado and scheming stripped away. “I know, but if you’d seen the look on your face…”

“I’m not going to leave you, Thomas,” Edward interrupts, and Thomas goes silent, scarcely breathing, and Edward knows this is something he needs to hear, as much as it’s something he needs to say. “I made a mistake back then, when things were at their worst,” and he feels Thomas’ thumb shift over his wrist, his hand wrapping around it protectively, “but it’s not one I intend to repeat.”

Edward tries to smile, finds it sitting naturally on his face, where once it had felt awkward and foreign. “I have too much to live for and too much to do to entertain such thoughts.” Edward moves the hand on Thomas’ lips, using it to cup the side of Thomas’ face, using it as a guide to lower his head and brush a kiss across Thomas’ slack lips. “ _We_ have too much to do.”

Thomas sucks in a breath, wet and shuddering, using his broad chest to push Edward backwards, and they collapse together onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and strewn-about bedsheets. Edward lands on his back, with Thomas’ dense, muscular weight holding him down, and Thomas pushes his face into the side of Edward’s neck, inhaling as though he’s trying to breathe the very essence of Edward into himself. “Thank you,” he whispers, and Edward doesn’t even ask what the words are for; knowing that Thomas had the strength to say them is enough.

Thomas doesn’t stay atop him for long. He rocks back onto his knees and starts fumbling with Edward’s shirt, sliding the buttons loose from their holes, and Edward laughs softly, reaching up and returning the favor. When he has Thomas’ shirt open, he plunges both hands into the hole, and Thomas’ chest hair is warm and silken underneath his fingers. Thomas grunts as Edward touches him, undeterred in his efforts to divest Edward of his shirt, but Edward feels his heart rate pick up underneath his fingers, throbbing away in his chest.

Once Edward’s shirt is open and laid bare, Thomas goes straight for his belt, pulling the death through the tab and then getting to work on the buttons of his fly. Edward laughs, a little flustered but still responding, his manhood rising to the occasion, and strokes his hand down the line of Thomas’ stomach. “Good heavens, I’m sure my brother only wishes his presence could have this kind of effect on the ladies.”

Thomas makes a chuffing sound, casting Edward’s belt aside. “It’s not coz of your brother.”

“No?”

“No.” Thomas pauses, bracing his hands flat on Edward’s stomach, his fingertips curling under into fists. His voice is rough, almost jagged, as he speaks, blurring into a thick, almost indecipherable lower-class accent. “It’s coz you’re good to me, and you’re treating me like a person, like a whole human being, and I’ve not had much of that, and…” He trails off, swallowing, and Edward props himself up on his elbow, his hand moving to cup Thomas’ face. If he feels any moisture on Thomas’ cheek, he’ll never breathe a word of it to anyone.

“I’m so very, very sorry that people haven’t treated you in the way you deserve.” Edward says it slowly, carefully, enunciating every word. “But I’m not sorry that it put you in the Abbey, where you were the first person to treat a blind, broken solider like he still had worth, like he wasn’t finished. It’s selfish, I know, but I’m not sorry about that at all.”

“Neither am I,” Thomas whispers, and kisses the pad of Edward’s thumb. He pauses another moment before unclenching his hands and moving them downward, caressing over Edward’s still pants-sheathed cock, making Edward suck in a breath at the sudden, tingling sensation. “I want… to show you something,” he offers, uncharacteristically shy.

“Yes?” Edward moves his thumb over Thomas’ lips in a caress. He’s liked everything Thomas has shown him so far.

“I want to show you how men fu—make love to each other.”

“Haven’t we been doing that already?”

“Parts of it, yeah, but not all.” Thomas leans low over Edward, kissing his collarbone, and Edward strokes his hand through his hair. “Can I show you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Thomas sounds almost comically surprised.

“Yes.” Edward confirms, smiling a little. “I’ve liked everything else you’ve shown me; why not this?”

Edward can feel Thomas’ lips curl into a smile against his collarbone, and then Thomas is kissing him, rough and bruising, almost frantic, like he’s spent years waiting for someone to kiss this way. Perhaps he has.

He pulls back too soon, leaving Edward gasping and reaching for him, Thomas’ hair whispering through his fingers as he sits up. Thomas leans across him, and Edward hears him rummaging through the detritus on the nightstand. He finds what he wants and sits back on his heels, crouched over Edward’s legs, and Edward hears him unscrew the lid of a jar.

“The face cream?” Thomas certainly isn’t the first man to discover that ladies’ face cream makes a hand more slippery for self-gratification, but he’d been almost childishly excited at the quality of cream Edward had brought with him.

Thomas grunts in agreement, and Edward waits, fully expecting to feel Thomas’ hand on him again, perhaps grasping them both and sliding along their lengths.

Instead, Thomas comes forward, onto his knees and leaning on one hand, and his other hand never drops. Edward waits, confused, but Thomas keeps hovering above him, making soft, grunting sounds and breathing through his mouth.

“What are you doing?” Edward asks, curious. He doesn’t think Thomas is touching himself—if he were doing that, wouldn’t he lay beside Edward? Why hover so awkwardly?

“Readying myself.”

“For what?”

Thomas lets out a breath in a rush, chuckling at Edward’s innocence. “For sitting on your cock and riding it like a highbred horse.”

“Oh!” Edward can’t help his gasp of surprise, any more than he can help the way his cheeks flush hot, no doubt turning red, and Thomas laughs above him, breathless.

“You should imagine the look on your face, darling.”

Edward bites his lower lip. “How are you doing it?”

“With my hand.”

The more Edward asks, the less he understands. Instead of confusing himself further with more questions, he hesitantly lifts one hand. “May I touch you?”

“As much as you’d like.”

Edward starts with Thomas’ knees, bent on either side of his waist. Above him, Thomas starts moving again, rocking minutely back and forth, and Edward swears he can feel his eyes on his face. He moves his hands up Thomas’ thighs, fuzzy with hair, the big muscles flexing and moving under his fingers. One hand travels to Thomas’ hip, to where the bone swoops forward, and the other between his legs, brushing against his turgid, swaying cock and earning Edward a soft hiss.

“Careful, love, or the fun will end early.”

Edward breathes an apology and moves his hand, settling it on Thomas’ hip. Once it’s there, he can feel Thomas’ arm, reaching back behind him and moving with every shift of Thomas’ muscles. He traces along Thomas’ forearm, feeling the muscles in it bunch and move, until he gets to his hand. For a moment, he’s confused, not understanding what’s happening—it feels like Thomas has lost the first two fingers of his hand, and Edward is certain he has all his fingers—and then everything connects.

His face must show his surprise, because Thomas chuckles above him. “It’s not like being with a woman, or so I’m told. Things don’t just relax on their own and open up.”

“I see.” It makes perfect, logical sense, and now that Edward is over the shock of it, he’s curious. He moves his fingers along Thomas’ hand, over his extended thumb and down to where his fingers are sunk inside himself, and Thomas stops moving, letting him explore. It’s only when Edward traces the tip of one finger around the tight, puckered ring of skin that Thomas gasps and shudders.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, darling.” Thomas laughs, sounding breathless, almost giddy. “Quite the opposite, really.”

“Ah.” Edward explores with more confidence, circling the knuckles of Thomas’ hand with first one and then two fingers, pressing experimentally and feeling an unexpected thrill in his groin when Thomas’ flesh gives way a bit and the man moans at the sensation.

“May I try?”

Thomas practically gasps at the question, and yet still sounds like he can scarcely breathe when he answers. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Thomas gives a strangled little half-moan, and a tiny drop of something warm lands on Edward’s belly. “The face cream is near my knee, on your left side. You’ll need… you’ll need some of that. Before.”

Edward drops both hands and pats at the rumpled bedsheets until he finds the small jar. “How much should I use?”

“Be generous.”

That is remarkably unspecific, and Edward wrinkles his nose as he gets the jar open. Thomas was using two fingers, so that’s what he’ll use as well, and he smears the cream over the first two fingers of his left hand. He rubs it in, enjoying the slick, greasy feel on his fingers, and then adds more. It feels like too much, like great chunks on material on his hand, but Thomas breathes an affirmation above him.

“Yes, love, that’s good, that’s _perfect_ …”

Encouraged, Edward moves his hand back between Thomas’ legs and touches the back of his hand. Thomas moves it, and Edward hears his fingers slide free as Thomas sighs.

“You don’t need to be gentle… I can handle whatever you give me.”

“I’ve no intention of being a brute.”

Thomas just laughs quietly at that, with the slightest hint of disbelief, and Edward wonders what kind of lovers he’s had before. It makes his heart ache, thinking that Thomas expects rough treatment, and Edward is exceedingly gentle when he touches him, his fingertips light and questing as he moves them over the curve of Thomas’ cheek and towards his center. He feels Thomas twitch, his muscles flexing under his touch, and Thomas murmurs an oath as Edward circles the flexing ring of his ass.

Thomas is gasping and eager when Edward sinks his fingers into him, his flesh giving way easily and drawing Edward’s fingers inside. It’s different than doing the same to a girl, tighter in the beginning and then blossoming outward, and once he’s sunk inside, Edward is at a loss.

It must show on his face, because Thomas speaks up, his voice hot with desire. “Crook your fingers forward… like you’re calling me over.” Edward does as he’s told, his fingers hitting a hard, solid mass, and the effect is instant: Thomas bends low over him, gasping, his forehead falling to Edward’s shoulder, and Edward would pull his hand out if Thomas weren’t making such sweet sounds. He crooks his fingers again, tentative and shy, and Thomas groans on top of him, his mouth open and wet on Edward’s chest. He starts moving his hips backwards, into Edward’s hand, and his cock brushes against Edward’s abdomen, leaving smears of come behind.

The way Thomas moves and writhes above him has Edward wondering if he could get his lover off just like this, using only his hand, never touching him anywhere else. Edward lifts his free hand and rests it on the small of Thomas’ back, feeling it move up and down with every crick of his fingers, undulating like an ocean wave.

When Thomas pulls away, Edward’s hand is left grasping, opening and closing in the air, and he has a moment of wondering if he’d done something wrong. Thomas lowers himself to Edward’s thighs, crouching there like an enormous, warm cat, and Edward almost asks if everything is all right, until he hears the jar of cream open again and feels Thomas’ cream-slick hand wrap around him. Edward sucks in a breath as Thomas’ skillful fingers coax him to full erectness in record time.

As soon as it began, Thomas’ hand leaves off, and Edward whines in disappointment, making Thomas chuckle. “You’ll have something much better soon enough, love,” he tells him, and Edward hears Thomas shuffling about on top of him, moving forward until his knees gird Edward’s waist. Edward puts his hands on Thomas’ hips, squeezing them lightly, and Thomas brushes his fingers past them as he reaches behind himself. A moment later he’s grasping Edward’s cock at the base, holding it so it juts upward rather than lying flat on his belly, and Edward remembers the French prostitute doing something similar before she sank down onto him and ground away, seeking to bring him off as quickly as possible so another paying customer could tumble into her bed.

Thomas braces his free hand on Edward’s belly, over the streaks and smears of fluid they’ve both left there already, and pushes down onto Edward in one long, smooth motion.

They gasp in unison, Edward arching his back and lifting up off the bed, his hips and lower body pinned by Thomas, his entire length sheathed in Thomas’ body, in his tight, suffocating heat, and for just a moment, it’s as though he can see again, as stars dip and pinwheel behind his eyelids.

“ _Aaaaaaah_ …” Thomas breathes out in a shuddering gasp, his muscles clenching and unclenching all around Edward. “Oh darling, you’re perfect, you’re the perfect size and shape, god, everything about you is glorious…”

“ _Thomas_ ,” Edward tries to respond in kind, but his tongue is clumsy and uncouth, able only to form Thomas’ name, mute to all else. “Thomas, Thomas, _oh_ …” He says it like a prayer, like a litany, as Thomas begins rocking back and forth over him, dragging along his length, and after a few beats, Edward starts to shift his hips in time with him.

It’s a quick, frantic pace Thomas sets up, almost panicked, and Edward clings to his hips to keep him from flinging himself off. Thomas’ breathing is rough and gasping, sounding like a train laboring to pull out of the station, and drops of his sweat fall on Edward like rain, perfuming them both with the essence of sex and masculinity. It hangs heavy in the air, a thick musk, and Edward thinks he’s never smelled anything so intoxicating in all his life.

Thomas grunts on top of him and lifts one hand. When it doesn’t return to his belly, Edward feels upward for it, and finds Thomas holding himself, stroking in time to the rocking motion of his hips. Edward folds their hands together, intertwining their fingers, and strokes with Thomas until his entire body shudders and he coats both their hands with hot, sticky fluid. As Thomas rides out his orgasm, every muscle in his body clenches and releases spasmically, and Edward follows close behind him, shivering and spraying harder than he can ever remember coming, ejaculating deep into Thomas’ guts.

Thomas stays perched on top of him until Edward is done, and then he slowly picks himself up and off. Edward murmurs an apology about making a mess, and Thomas silences him with a kiss.

~*~

They end up extending their holiday by two days, and visit no more of London than their hotel room. They leave behind stained sheets, a handsome tip to ensure silences from the housekeeping staff, and an empty jar of ladies’ face cream.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for the long wait on this one; it took me awhile to get everything together! This is tentatively a trilogy now.


End file.
